Square One
by GreatBigFreak
Summary: The dark night of the soul for the Undertaker. Takes place circa the 1994 Royal Rumble. Rated for graphic drug use and the fall out of such, language, and brief sexuality.
1. Part 1

Title: Square One or: Only When it's Dark Enough

Rating: M for description of drug use, mentions of prostitution, and language.

Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with the life of Mark Calaway. I have nothing to do with WWE incorporated. I make no money from them and certainly not for my fan fiction. This is fiction, and only fiction. I do not intend any defamation of character by this story. The idea was just intriguing.

Notes: Reggie the EMS guy is based on a real life encounter I had with one. He was brash, loud, hilarious, had obviously worked WAY too many hours lately, and made me think that what I was going through was no big deal, and I could indeed live through it.

Summary: The dark night of the soul for Mr. Calaway. Takes place around the '94 Royal Rumble.

Warnings: This story will contain the graphic use of drugs, and the aftermath of such.

It was late and his hands were trembling. Actually, it was rather early, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably. The girl had left, recognizing that he was spiraling down to an overdose, and she herself was too high to deal with that. It had been about three days since he'd eaten, and longer since he'd slept. He'd learned very early in life how much his body could absorb and bounce back from. In fact, he had wondered in the past if there was a limit to what he could take...

...And now he had his answer. He was dying. He knew he was dying... Unless he could get to the downers in his luggage. _Reds._ He needed reds if he was doing to live to see the dawn. He'd tried to tell the girl that, but she'd been too fucking stoned to understand him anymore. Somewhere within him, the responsible part of him feared for her walking the city at this odd hour. Of course, there was another part of him that could fucking care less. That was his addiction talking... He was addicted. That thought came crashing in on him. He was addicted and there was no control over his life anymore. None. _Fuck, and I used to be such a control freak._ He thought.

_No._ He thought. _Don't get lost... The reds. Get to the fucking reds._ He forced his breathing to slow down. He just wished his heart beat would do the same. His naturally macabre mind thought about what they'd announce the cause of his death would be. Would Vince admit that it was another drug related death caused mostly by too much time spent on the road? Probably not.

... If they'd just given him some time off. He didn't even have a home anymore. The road agent assured Mark that he maintained a condo in Florida, but Mark had never seen the damn thing. At this point in his life, he was quite literally living out of his luggage.

Luggage that he was now tearing through violently. _The reds. Get to the fucking reds. Get to the reds, or your heart or brain will explode._ He thought. He tossed one more rumpled pair of jeans to the side, and breathed a sigh of relief, not that it slowed down his heartbeat any... What he was looking at through his eyes which he was having quite a lot of trouble focusing was a ball of dirty socks. Never in his life had he been so glad to see a mound of dirty fucking socks. He sucked in air though his nose and tried to concentrate despite his nasal passages being so dry it felt like he was inhaling sand.

He wondered if he had any sense of smell left. It wouldn't surprise him if he'd lost it to the drug long ago. When he's started, he didn't care. The drug had taken his pain, his rarely admitted, yet rampant stage fright, and any other lingering insecurity, and made them vanish. _So there is too much of a good thing._ He thought.

The reasonable, responsible part of him roared to the forefront of his mind again. _The reds, you fucking moron! Get to the fucking reds if you want to live!_ Mark started digging clumsily through the socks. He quickly concluded that he must have some sense of smell left, because they had a rank odor that brought tears to his eyes. Still, the tactic had managed to confuse and discourage every drug sniffing dog he'd encountered so far. At the bottom of the pile, he found a small, airtight box with a combination lock where the individual numbers turned, much like any brief case. He realized his idiocy then. Opening the box would be difficult, if not impossible to do with his shaking hands. He fumbled with the box, his breathing becoming more and more ragged as he got more irritated that his hands wouldn't do what he wanted them to.

More tears sprung to his eyes. "Fuck" He said. "I don't want to die like this." He knew if his words were recognizable at all, that his voice would be cracked and pathetic. He threw the box on the bed. The lamp on the bedside table was sill on, which is how the girl had realized that he was too fucked up to continue fucking her. It had started as soon as he'd snorted a line that he'd set up between her breasts. He knew almost immediately that he was done for, and told her to get dressed and call 911. She'd gotten dressed, and stolen the rest of the cocaine he had on the bedside table, but she hadn't picked up the phone. She was more then willing to let him die rather then get involved with the police...

...And Mark figured that it was no less then he deserved. He'd done this to himself. Maybe he should die here, naked in this hotel room. He was ready to lie down on the thin carpet and fall asleep for the last time.

Then a strange image came to him. He thought he could see his mother through his unfocused eyes. It was odd, because he always figured that the dying would see the already dead, and both of his parents were still very much alive and living in a Houston suburb. He tried to focus on her. It appeared she was talking and it took Mark some time to figure out what she was trying to say. He finally recognized the words from his early teen years. He'd been picked on because of his large size, a stutter which plagued him, and red hair. "Mark, you've got to learn to use your brain and mouth to fight instead of your fists. You could really hurt someone." She'd told him after Mark had exploded in anger at someone, and sent them to the hospital. Mark had been lucky that the person he'd lost it on was bullying someone else at the time, and the family opted not to have charges pressed against Mark.

But Mark had always known his physical strength. He knew when he was hurting someone, and when he was hurting someone so they wouldn't be getting up again. He'd always known. His mother had inspired him that day though, she really had, but not in the way she'd hoped for. Mark had taken that plea and twisted it. He'd made his mind just as an effective weapon as his fists. His mouth was another matter. Mark wasn't much for talking even back then. That had other causes, and he'd thought it somewhat cruel of his mother to tell him that. He didn't talk then because he couldn't without a least a minor stutter. It got worse when he was nervous or upset. It was the worst around his father, but he'd exacerbated it in Mark's mind. It had certainly fostered Mark's obsessive streak. Planning out every word precisely before he'd made his mouth pronounce it...

His mouth... He could use his mouth. It took everything in him to haul his dying body up against the bed. The only thing he could hear was his heart pounding in his ears. His entire skull vibrated with its racing. The finish line of course was his untimely demise. His mouth. He could use his mouth. He braced the box up against his right forearm and put his mouth to the turning digit lock so common on brief cases.

His hands were useless, but his jaw and teeth could move the dials quite effectively. 3. He pulled his head back enough, and his vision was just clear enough to make sure that he'd gotten the dial to 3. He was relieved to see that it was, and this could work. 2 was next. Clicking up the dial one number at a time was painstaking, and possibly too late of an effort to save himself. But who cared?

4 was the last number. His birthday was far too easy of a combination, but it had to be something that he could remember easily in circumstances like this. Besides, nobody had found the box yet, so no one had any reason to try and figure out the combination. A couple of clicks with his jaw, and he would be on his way. His mother was still talking to him in his head though. She was repeating every piece of advice she'd ever given him. It was comforting and terrifying at the same time for Mark. His mother was an incredibly strong woman to have raised about half a dozen boys, but so strong that sometimes it bordered on overbearing. He tried to block out all the words that made entirely too much sense in his current situation, and concentrate on the lock. And when he'd done it, it took a long period of staring at the box and listening to his heart pound in his chest to make sure the number was right.

When was absolutely sure in his mind that it was, he nosed at the box's lid. He gasped in breath when it opened, and fought the urge to scream loudly, just to drown out his heartbeat. _Reds._ That responsible voice in him said again. _REDS!_

Mercifully, the bottle wasn't childproof. He pinned it between his forearms, and twisted the cap open with his teeth, while his hands shook uselessly in front of him. The large red pills spilled out on the rumpled bed spread and Mark had a hard time concentrating on any particular one... This was it. He was going to die, right here on the brink of his salvation. "Fuck" He gasped, thinking this time might have been better spent convulsing on the floor now.

He didn't know why, perhaps it was the muscle spasms caused by the overdose, but he found himself suddenly cast up further on the bed. While his mind had given up, this remarkably strong body of his had not. His vision made out several small red shapes in front of his face. The pills were inches away from his mouth. His hands were still shaking, but he managed to get one up and pick up several of the pills. He clutched them tightly in his hand, and he could hear them ratting around inside of his fist. He got his hand to his mouth and used his tongue to make sure that he got the pills into his mouth.

His other arm flailed about behind him, searching for the bedside table and the open beer bottles on it. He knew some of them were fresh, while others had been used to put out cigarettes with the dregs left in them. He was too out of it to bother to test the weight of the bottles. He just needed to be able to grip on to one of them... And he chose wrong. The liquid that filled his mouth was full of ash and a few filters. Desperately, he fought his gag reflex and swallowed the vile concoction down. He forced the pills down his throat... And with that, knowing he'd done all he could do for himself, he slipped down to the floor to let himself die in peace, or at least choke on his own vomit.

Sleep didn't come for him. He laid there, unfocused eyes open, and only blinking rarely. He listened to his heartbeat pound, and tried not to focus on the shapes that were moving in the periphery of his vision. Dark things were lurking there, waiting for him if he let himself focus on them. This holding pattern kept on until the first streaks of dawn came in through the hotel window. He was shocked that he'd lived this long in this state. Unless he was already dead, and this was hell. Now that was a possibility...

But he figured the sun didn't rise in hell, and it was most certainly getting lighter and lighter outside of his window. By the amount of light in the sky, he knew that Bill, "Uncle Paul", would be up and moving. He'd have gotten coffee and called his wife back home, as was his routine, which Mark usually slumbered through. For the life of him, he couldn't remember when Bill had said he'd be coming to wake him up and get him moving so they could get to the next show...

Mark hoped that the merciful thing would happen and that he would be dead by the time Bill unlocked the door with the extra key Mark always gave him. If he was dead, or at least too far gone to be saved by the time he got here, the clean up would be much less costly and time consuming. Also, Bill was a friend and Mark didn't want him to have to see him like this... And that was because Bill cared about him, and Mark no longer cared about much of anything in any meaningful way. He'd sucked any good left in him up his nose long ago. At least that's how he felt anyways.

So when the room's door unlocked and swung upon, Mark cursed inwardly. He'd lived through the night. _Fucking reds._ He thought.

"Time to start moving, Mark. I swear you're like an overgrown teenager most days." Bill said in his natural Alabama twang. Mark managed a strained groan from his position on the floor. The beer bottle was blocking part of his view, and he figured that had made for some of his more frightening hallucinations over night. "Mark?" Bill repeated, now looking into the room and seeing it in shambles and Mark lying prostrate on the floor. Normally he avoided looking into Mark's room for the sake of the modesty of the girl he'd usually have in the bed with him. Mark, with his seemingly endless energy would usually say "Sure boss" and be up and moving in seconds. Today there was no movement.

Bill smelled the vomit, the spilled beer, and stale cigarette smoke. He then locked on Mark's blank, dilated eyes. His arms and legs twitched in random spasm, and that was only how Bill knew that Mark was still alive. He was mostly naked, save for a pair of boxer shorts and a single sock, with only his ever growing collection of tattoos to cover the rest of him.

Mark had rarely heard Bill swear during their few years working together. He was a polite, southern gentleman most of the time, but had strong opinions on how things should be. That was why he had handled the care and feeding of the Undertaker so well... Until now apparently.

"Mark, you fucking idiot." Bill said quietly as he walked into the room. He was no stranger to Mark's ever increasing drug habit, but the kid had never missed a show or even been late, so Bill hadn't ever come down on him for it yet. He put it up to Mark's youth and impetuousness. He stepped over Mark, and went for the phone. Mark was only vaguely aware of Bill's presence when he was out of sight. He was absolutely dumbfounded that he was still breathing at this point.

_Fucking reds._ He thought again as he stared away from the door and into the light coming in from the window. He wondered what had possessed him to save his own life last night. Death by heart attack caused from a drug over dose sounded mighty restful about now.

To be continued...


	2. Part 2

Disclaimer: Characters not mine... They just do strange things in my head.

* * *

The room became a flurry of activity in a short time. Guys he worked with filtered to the door to speak to Bill, making Mark's agitation come to the fore, though he still couldn't move very much. A few of them even came in the room, but nobody stooped down to talk to Mark or bring comfort to him. At this point, he was just another casualty of the road, to be left behind when he could no longer keep up.

Mark blinked when the EMTs clomped in to the room in their heavy, rubber soled boots. "Well, well, big, ain't he?" The first man into the room said to no one in particular. The walkie-talkie on his belt crackled with information and static, and he wore latex gloves. "No wonder dispatch warned us." The gloves were powder blue, but to Mark as the EMT knelt down, the gloves became long, ashen gray, clawed hands. Mark knew full well it was the drugs that were making him see this, but he still couldn't help his reaction. Despite having lain still for hours, he exploded away from those demonic looking hands, which for all he knew, could have been the icy hands of Death or something worse.

"Oh fuck!" The EMT shouted. Mark was on his feet and at his most intimidating in seconds. He didn't say a word or make a sound, which was the creepiest thing about it. The EMT knew that most others would be raving by now. He looked to the rotund man who seemed to be the one that had found the big guy in this state. "Got any suggestions to help control your coked out friend?" He asked.

Bill shrugged his shoulders mildly. "It's never been this bad before. I assume all you can try to do is see if he'll get some downers into him."

"Great" The EMT muttered, and then looked back to Mark. "Hey, big fucker, you want some fun Valium? It'll put ya right. I got it if you want it." Mark just glared at the man who was shorter then him, but almost as wide. Mark was breathing heavy, and blinking, but otherwise not moving. He noticed the other EMT go to a bag he'd carried in with him. "Big fucker, look at me, not him." Said the first man. His name tag read: REGGIE, and he was in the middle of taking a quick glance around the room. He was long hardened to his job and the situations that it put him in. A strung out cokehead was nothing new to him. His eyes darted over to the bed. He saw the spilled bottle of pills there.

"Reds, eh? Wow. Good thing you had those in your stash. It probably saved your worthless life last night... I hate smart cokeheads, I really do. Honestly, you should fucking know better. Now, you can take the Valium my partner here is digging up for you, calm down, and come with us. Or, you can stay here and keep up your self-destructive cycle until your fucking heart explodes. It's your choice." Reggie said. For a long while, nobody in the room moved.

The other EMT finally stood up, with a bottle of pills from the gear bag in his hand. Mark's eyes rested on him again, wondering what threatening shape this man's hands would take on. Reggie immediately saw that he was loosing the big guy's attention. "You're a wrestler, right?" Reggie asked. "You've gotta be making good money, why waste it on this?"

Mark's eyes went back to him, and he glared daggers at this man. "You think life in the circus is easy?" He asked. Mark's voice was a harsh rasp, and he couldn't be sure if he'd formed coherent words or not. Everyone looked at him with such surprise that he'd spoken, that he knew he must have made understandable words come from his mouth. He'd jabbed as effectively as he could have with his now only trembling hands at the moment. He'd made an impact that people would remember. "At least you get to go home at the end of the day. At least you have a home." Mark rasped, and then his body started to wobble as if his knees were being cut out from underneath him. The last of his strength and energy was gone, and he was going to collapse.

He sank to his knees first, the last of his reflexes saving him somewhat by using his arm to prop himself up against the bed. The EMTs immediately jumped into action. The big one, Reggie, was in front of him, and the smaller younger man was behind him. "Can you still understand me big fucker?" Reggie asked him. Mark nodded weakly. "You gonna puke?" Mark nodded again. "Okay Joey, you get in front of the big fucker here. I am not dealing with coke fiend puke today... Especially from a guy this big. It's gonna be a lot."

"Here" Said Bill. He was holding the room's waste paper basket. Joey changed positions with Reggie without voicing any complaint, his mind to his work. He held his hands against Mark's shoulders, effectively keeping him an arm's length between them. Bill set the garbage can down in that space.

"Hope that's big enough. Depending on if he's eaten, he could become a Linda Blair stereotype." Reggie warned. He was right too. Mark's head lolled forward, and he heaved more into that garbage pail then he thought possible. Then again, he had had a lot of booze in his system as well last night. Reggie was behind Mark, his arms around the lower part of his chest, keeping him upright. "Hey! Whoever's not necessary, get the fuck outta here! This ain't a show!" Reggie barked. Mark saw blurry forms start to head towards the door from the corner of his eye.

"S'all a show" Mark slurred and heaved again, this time bringing up a stream of green bile. "Not real. Jus' a show." He rasped, and pitched to one side, about to fall over.

"Oh no no no, big fucker. You ain't passing out on me now! You did not live this long to die with one sock on and a severe case of halitosis, did you? I mean, you're stupid for having got yourself into this situation, but you'd be a fucking idiot and a quitter to give up now." Reggie said, his voice booming. Mark figured he would have made a great drill instructor if he'd taken the military route. Mark listened to that voice, and found himself believing what he'd been told... And Mark was no quitter. His not being a quitter is what had led to this situation. Mark stiffened his spine and forced himself to stay upright, aided by the edge of the bed.

"Well look, big fucker's got a brain in that head of his still." Reggie declared. "Now, we're gonna get you some Valium, okay? Your heart's still going a mile a minute and you're walking towards a heart attack." Mark managed to nod his head in agreement. "We're also gonna try and put a big dose of acetaminophen in you. You're burning up."

Mark managed to hold himself up while they poured pills and water down his throat, not opting for injections because they figured that he'd survived this long already, he could live through the time it took for them to absorb into his bloodstream. As often as possible, he looked over to Bill. Seeing Mark's will to survive this had softened the other man's expression somewhat. Perhaps Bill could even believe this was all an honest mistake... Yeah, right. Bill more then anybody else knew how Mark pushed everything, most of all the limits of his own body. "You hit what you head for." Bill had warned him cryptically not too long ago after yet another night of Mark's carousing.

Only now did Mark fully understand those words. He'd found his limit all right, and now he could do little more then suck air into his lungs. Reggie continued to hold him up while Joey stepped outside the room and brought in the rolling stretcher, which was impossible with the crowd in the room when they'd arrived. "Now big fucker, you gonna get violent when we strap you down?" Reggie asked.

"No" Mark whispered, trying his very best not to look at either of their gloves. They still made the hands underneath them look very alien to Mark. As an aside, he found his voice had much improved with the water they'd washed the pills down with. It wasn't much of an improvement, but he at least recognized it as his own again. "Sleep... Want sleep." He murmured.

"I'll bet you do." Reggie said. "How long you been awake now?"

"Don't remember." Mark answered. The EMTs hoisted Mark up on to the stretcher with relative ease for Mark's size, and Mark stayed good and quiet while they secured him to it. Joey started asking him questions, and Mark muttered back answers. He told him his birth date, his blood type, details about his insurance, next of kin, and exactly what drugs he'd been taking. But his eyes held on Reggie and Bill.

"We're gonna take him back to the hospital and pump him up with fluids and vitamins... the docs there can recommend rehab programs, especially for someone with money like him. Most addicts just get tossed back out on the street when they're through the danger zone. I assume you'll be coming with us?"

"I'll have to arrange a few things. He chose to do this at an inconvenient time." Bill said, thinking of the shows and the upcoming pay-per-view. He sighed deeply, and looked over at Mark. "He always does this. He always pushes himself." Bill said in a rare, emotional moment.

"Well, once we get him full of the things his body needs, maybe he can push himself back into a healthy lifestyle." Reggie offered. Mark closed his eyes then. He didn't want to face rehab. He just wanted to go home and sleep... That is, if he had a home. If they pulled him from shows, he literally had no place to go. Fuck Florida. Too humid there anyways.

"Hey big fucker! You're not goin' to sleep on me yet! I think you'll make it, but the doc's still gotta put you in the clear and make sure you're not gonna have a heart attack." Reggie barked. Mark's eyes snapped open. "See, you can't be that dumb. You know when it's important to listen..." Reggie turned back to Bill. "Anyways Mr. Moodie, I'm bringing him to Mercy. You'll be able to track him down there."

"Okay, what should I do with those, with all of it?" Bill pointed to the remains of Mark's stash strewn on the bed.

"Flush 'em, toss 'em, hell bring the reds with you for when you need to relax. Just don't let HIM have 'em." Reggie said. "All right Joey, let's move out. Seeing as I've taken a liking to the big fucker here, mostly because I figure he's done puking, you wheel and I'll heal."

They brought Mark out via the loading dock, for the sake of not upsetting the other guests. Two days ago, Mark had strutted in the front doors like he owned the place. Now he was being asked to leave by the back door... and he'd earned it.

It had been Bill who'd convinced him to get the jacked up insurance coverage, and when Mark got to the hospital, he was glad of it. Because of his risk of heart attack, and it being a Monday morning, he was wheeled on through the doors of the waiting room and hooked up to a heart monitor, among other things. He was also strapped down to a bed, which disturbed him, but the Valium had kicked in, and he couldn't do much of anything about it.

Reggie, in his oddly placed affection for his charge, had stayed with Mark while he waited to see the doctor, talking to him and keeping him awake. In a quiet moment, Mark managed to weakly test the restraints. "Jus' like the beast I've become." He said darkly, not caring if Reggie heard him or not.

"You didn't hurt anybody while fucked up, did ya?" Reggie asked.

"Fed a few expensive hookers a lot of drugs." Mark confessed.

"Well, that ain't shit. I deal with a lot of hookers, and you were probably making their life a little easier to handle."

"Ya know, for someone who hates cokeheads, you seem quite the advocate of recreational drug use." Mark's eyes rolled back. If he had wanted to sleep before, he needed to sleep now. Reggie laughing out loud kept him conscious though.

"I said I hated smart cokeheads. You should know better. Besides, I can't fault anybody for wanting to get rid of their pain. Most paramedics are alcoholics in our off time. We work such fucked up hours that we have to drink ourselves to sleep."

"Mmm... Sleep." Mark murmured.

"Not yet big fucker." Reggie ordered and Mark's eyes snapped open again. A smallish man in a white coat stood in the door way, and was flanked by two far larger men. "What have you got for me, Reggie?" The small man asked.

"Cocaine overdose. Have administered Valium to slow heart rate and acetaminophen to bring down his fever. Name is Mark Calaway, now know as 'big fucker', 28ish years old, blood type is..." Reggie then rattled off all Mark's medical stats. "...And he's insured out the ass, so you can't just turn him out on the street. Ain't that right, big fucker?" Reggie asked.

"Worth ev'ry penny to listen to you fer the last hour an' a half." Mark mumbled with his eyes half-closed.

"Yeah, very funny. Well Mark, you're in good hands now. See ya around." Reggie said. Mark watched him go through his still unfocused eyes. He wanted to say something, but the doctor and the two orderlies were immediately in his face, checking him for eye dilation, and all the other preliminary evaluations. The lights in his eyes, and all the hands in his space were getting him agitated again. The doctor spoke to him in an even tone, trying to sooth him, but Mark couldn't focus on him like he did the brash Reggie. A temporary regimen of anti-psychotic drugs and nutritional supplements were arranged as Mark was showing signs of malnutrition, and Mark was wheeled into a private room and finally allowed to sleep.


	3. Part 3

Disclaimer: Characters not mine. I'm not making any money off of this... Makes you wonder why the hell I bother, eh?

* * *

He awoke feeling like he'd been hit by a truck. The first person he made out standing near the bed was Bill. Mark was in more then a little disbelief that he'd hung around. The next person he made out was Vince, and that really surprised him. "Oh fuck" Mark murmured.

"Oh fuck is right, Mark. What the fuck is wrong with you?" Vince asked, clearly very pissed off with him. Mark narrowed his eyes. He did not need this right now, and he immediately felt his heart rate start to rise.

"I'm addicted to cocaine, Vince. What the fuck does it look like?" He shot back... And saying it out loud felt very odd to him. He'd called himself a cokehead and a junkie, and all sorts of ugly euphemisms, but he'd never named the bare facts of him being addicted before. The concept actually scared him, but he knew it was the truth. Like usual though, he used bravado to cover his fear. The need for bravado was the reason he'd started using coke in the first place.

"I've worked like a fucking dog slave for you for four years. I've worked hurt and exhausted and never complained. You know why? Drugs. Copious amounts of drugs. When I was hurting, they let me ignore it. When I was tired, they kept me awake to get to the next show in order to make you more fucking money." Mark stopped short in what could have been the start of a very long rant. Now that he was more fully awake, Mark felt his agitation building and his mind swimming. His skin started crawling, and he closed his eyes. "No" He whispered. "No no no no no." He took in long, slow, breaths, but to no avail.

"What's wrong?" Bill asked in his genuine, caring manner. Mark's head rolled back and forth on the pillow. His fists balled and his toes curled. His body contorted and he pulled against the restraints. Had he been free to move, he would have started scratching at his tattoos. They always started in his tattoos and crawled outward from there.

"Mark, what's wrong?" This time it was Vince who asked.

"Bugs" Mark said and groaned. "Under my skin... Fuckin' coke bugs!" His shout was muted by his dry throat, and his voice cracked. He managed to stop writhing his head and focus on Bill. "Bill, did you get my stuff? The box, in the box there's-"

"I got rid of it all, Mark." Bill interrupted. "I'd do a lot of things for ya son, but I won't be your mule." Bill said. His face was grim. "Especially after this." He added. Mark groaned again, and strained against the cuffs that held him.

"How long has he been like this?" Vince asked as quietly as he could over the noise that Mark was making.

"A user? Since I've known him." Bill answered. "He's just never been this bad before... Hell, I was almost convinced that he had it under control."

Mark suddenly let out a wordless guttural bellow, and that brought a passing nurse into the room. "Fucking bugs. Fucking bugs." Mark jabbered over and over. The nurse rushed over and hit the call button beside the bed as she tried to comfort him.

Within minutes, another nurse, two larger orderlies and a doctor had piled into the private room and closed the door behind them. The nurse pulled the curtain between the bed and where Bill and Vince stood. Mark sounded like he was in agony behind that curtain. Bill and Vince could hear him rattling the restraints on his wrists and ankles, and groaning in between curses about the 'bugs' under his skin. The doctor calmly told him that they were going to administer the anti-psychotic and sedative that he'd been prescribed. Mark didn't answer in words, but apparently took whatever it was they gave him with little resistance.

The doctor left soon after, not saying a word to Bill or Vince, and looking tired and annoyed. Mark's self inflicted state was an intrusion to him. The drug addict was taking up a bed better spent on someone with a genuine problem. His inevitable outbursts as he crashed out were not something he was looking forward to.

Eventually the curtain opened, and Mark was still writhing against the restraints and pouring sweat, but he seemed calmer now. His eyes were half-closed again, but he looked square at Vince. "Can you please yell at me later? I got some other problems right now." He slurred.

"Mark, we've got a helluva situation here." Vince said. The serious turn Mark had taken had forced him to calm down and think. "I can't afford to have you not around right now." Mark rolled his head back as far into the pillow as he could.

"Fuck, Vince" He moaned. Having no food in his stomach and his high metabolism meant that the drugs they'd administered to him were quickly taking effect. "If you want me in the ring, cut these restraints, get me five lines set up, and then we'll talk." Mark said.

"You still want that shit?" Vince asked.

"Addicted, Vince." Mark said flatly, and closed his eyes. He hoped that was explanation enough. The hospital gown felt rough against his skin and the bugs underneath it. They hadn't gone away by any means. The sedative just meant he couldn't react to them. He hoped they'd be gone after he slept again.

"Can you do the pay per view?" Vince asked.

"Christ, I don't know. I'm too busy trying to not have a fucking heart attack." Mark replied. He was mean when he came down, and he knew it. His solution for the last month or so was to just not come down.

"You need some serious help, Mark."

"There's a surprise." Mark said sarcastically.

"The hospital has notified your family." Vince said, in hopes of changing Mark's demeanor.

It didn't work.

"What family?" Mark grumbled.

"Your parents and your wife."

"Great, a couple of mountains of compassion there." He muttered. "And she's well on the way to being my ex-wife."

"A couple of your brothers are coming to pick you up and bring you home." Bill said and that caught Mark's attention.

"Why? I don't have a home." Mark whispered. He was instantly annoyed that his brothers would do such a thing, seeing as Mark had all but ignored all family in the last six months or so.

"Well apparently, they still give a shit about you... Which trust me, I find miraculous." Bill replied. Mark knew that Bill was right. Mark was a bear to deal with when sober, and now it must have required the strength of Atlas on Bill's part to keep Mark going. Mark looked up at Bill with haunted eyes.

"I'm sorry. I really am. I know I'm still fucked out of my mind, and this probably doesn't mean a goddamned thing to you... But I am sorry." He said quietly.

"I should fucking hope so." Vince grumbled.

"I wasn't talking to you, Vince." Mark said. This time his voice was deathly quiet when it should have been an outburst of indignation.

"Apology accepted" Bill said quickly to divert from the forming argument. He gave Mark a small, sad smile. "And I'm sorry for not seeing it was this bad much sooner."

"Not your fault or responsibility." Mark said. "I should be an adult now."

Vince was clearly uncomfortable with Mark's disregard for him. He'd always been extremely accommodating up until now, so he wasn't used to Mark pulling an attitude with him. He took a moment to be quiet and look at the young man strapped down to the hospital bed. The make up he wore for TV made him look older then he was. But Vince saw some fundamental changes in Mark's face. He'd added years with what he'd been putting himself through.

Vince left soon after that, without his answer about the upcoming pay per view. He was annoyed with Mark, but his mind was in conflict. The pressure of life on the road was an expected part of working in this business. But he'd forgotten just how young Mark was when he'd gotten pushed up the card... And for the most part, the kid had carried it off. Vince had little to complain about when it came to Mark's performance and the dollars he generated for the company. In fact, Mark on the card was one of the things guaranteed to make him money right now. The product they put out was in flux, and Vince believed that The Undertaker could be a huge part of the shift in demographic.

So Vince chose to get a hotel room and stay the night. He would visit Mark tomorrow with a clearer head. Investing this little bit of time and money in his recovery could mean consistent, huge payoffs later. He knew Mark's loyalty and dedication to what he did. Hell, he'd put himself in the hospital over it. Careful handling of this situation would be good for business, very good for business. Vince went to dinner and a late conference call with dollar signs in the back of his eyes.

With fluids and some soft food in his system, Mark was more coherent the next day. He agreed to do the Rumble and his addled mind seemed to help as he set up the situation that would allow him to leave for a time. Bill, Vince, and Mark all agreed on the plan and they were just finishing up the details when Mark started slipping into another episode of euphoria. This time Bill told Vince that the nurses had explained to him that Mark would go into periods where he still felt as if he was high as he came down from using the drug. This time Mark started mumbling about dark things with knives for teeth lurking in the closet and behind the curtain and door to the bathroom. He rolled his head into the pillow again and shut his eyes, trying to block things out.

Another look over Mark by Vince showed just how thin he'd gotten and just how far his eyes had sunken back into his head. Mark still had a lot of muscle, but he was still too thin. There wasn't an ounce of fat left on him, and that was not healthy. He wondered if Mark had been on cocaine the first time they'd met. Quiet rumours circulated about Mark's stage fright, but Vince had never asked him about it. It had never hurt Mark's ability to perform, before now that is. If anything, his reservation helped build the character of the Undertaker.

"I hate you. I hate you. I hate you." Mark whispered over and over as he stared at an empty corner of the room. "Hate you. Hate you. Hate you." Bill slowly reached out so Mark could see him moving his hand. He placed it on Mark's upper arm. He might never have done it if Mark hadn't been strapped down to the bed.

"Who do you hate?" Bill asked. Mark raised his wrist as far as the leather cuff would allow him to.

"Him" Mark said, pointing to the empty corner of the room. "You can't see him. I shouldn't be able to see him. But he's there... It's the drugs. I know it's the drugs, but they make me see him. S'bad enough when he's in my head, now I gotta see him too."

"Who is it?" Bill persisted.

"Can't tell you. You'll think I'm crazy... Well, I am crazy. Pills are just making it apparent." Mark said and closed his eyes. "You'd have me committed, an' I'm not ready for that yet. They wouldn't let me out."

He couldn't ever admit to Bill or Vince, or anybody for that matter what he saw. Or rather, who he saw standing in the corner. He as looking at himself, or looking at his character, really. But the character wasn't wearing the long black cloth coat and hat. No, this version of the Undertaker was something the creative team could never come up with by themselves. They didn't know how to stretch and twist the Undertaker into this vision of dark terror. But Mark did, because he'd already done it.

Gone was the pale make up, unkempt red beard and hair. This Undertaker wore no hat and appeared to be immaculately clean, but was still no less intimidating then what Mark already portrayed. This version of himself was garbed like some dark wizard or medieval warrior, and also had an element of raw, selfish, sexual power. The kind of being that would pound the tar out of you, and then fuck you just to show you just who was in charge... And Mark hated him, because he was born of Mark's drug induced paranoia, and the possibility of Mark becoming that kind of man so easily. Vince would cum in his pants if he knew what Mark saw the character would become, but couldn't tell him because he was in no shape to take it to that level yet.

The nurse arrived with pills and water for him. He swallowed them down, and even managed to thank her between his jabbering. She quietly and discreetly asked if he need a bed pan and Mark told her no, beyond caring about certain privacies.

A few hours later Vince was gone, but Bill was still there, and Mark hit a lucid period again. Bill was grateful that this is when two of Mark's older brothers arrived. They weren't as tall as Mark, but they were just as broad. Bill shook their hands and introduced himself. David and Tim were polite, friendly, and even thanked Bill for staying with Mark. Bill had been expecting anger, righteous indignation or simmering acceptance, but not the almost warm reception he was getting.

David and Tim were only slightly appalled by the restraints Mark had on, and when Bill explained why, they nodded their heads quietly. "You understand who's talking to ya, Mark?" David, the eldest of his brothers asked.

"Yeah Dave, I know... For now." Mark replied.

"Good. Momma and daddy want you to come home." David said quietly.

"Home? I don't have a home." Mark said. His face showed that he was clearly tired of having to explain this to people.

"Home to their house, Mark. Home, home." Dave explained. Mark rolled his eyes.

"No" Mark said. "Put me in rehab. Put me in prison. But please do not send me back to that suburban nightmare." Mark said. Tim, the youngest of his older brothers, chuckled.

"You need structure Mark, a place where people care about you and want to see you get over this and get better. Besides, would you rather go to your wife's house?" David asked.

"Fuck you" Mark murmured. His soon to be ex-wife was not his favourite topic. He missed the boys though. "And what if I turn violent?" Mark asked. Bill noticed that Mark had easily resumed his rarely used drawl.

"You seem fine now." Tim observed.

"Wait a week. Wait until I'm ready to kill to get a fix... Hell, wait ten minutes. You'll see." Mark warned.

"Any of two of the four of us, staying with you at the house at all times. Between our vacation and sick time, we can work it out." David offered. "That way momma can feed you up, daddy can smarten you up, and we can make sure you don't go coo coo for Co-Co Puffs."

Mark let out a groan from deep in his chest. "Why? Why would any of you do this for me?" He asked softly.

"You're kin, Mark... Gotta look out for our baby brother." Tim said. There was a long silence until Mark spoke again.

"Okay" Mark whispered his agreement. "But I have to fulfill some contractual obligations first."

"What you need, is to go home and get some fucking rest." David said.

"Do any of you have the million or so it would take to buy out my contract and pay the legal fees?" Mark asked. His brothers fell silent. "I thought so... Now it'll only really be about five hours worth of stuff I have to do in Rhode Island. You can come with me or go home, whatever. But I promise I'll go to momma and daddy's when I'm done... I'll go... home." He nearly choked on the word home. It was foreign in his mouth. But it was the first time he'd realized in a long time that he had a home to go to, and that they wanted him there. Even in this state.

"Momma would tan our asses good if we didn't bring you home with us." Tim said.

"Then I guess you're going to the Rumble with me." Mark concluded.


	4. Part 4

Disclaimer: Characters not mine. I make no money. I have no money. I'm "rolling pennies for gas broke" most of the time.

* * *

Mark was released under the condition that he would have constant supervision by family with just enough time to get to Rhode Island for the Rumble. His brothers drove him as they didn't want him in the closed quarters of a plane. He was still having frequent flashbacks and periods where he felt high. Mostly though, he tried to sleep to banish the twisted thoughts his withdrawal from the drug were causing him to have.

The day of the event, Mark got David and Tim to bring him to the arena early, so he could shoot a couple of promotional vignettes. A sectioned off area of the backstage had been set up as a studio with a closed set. Mark's brothers were nervous about letting Mark out of their sight, but when Bill arrived they calmed down some. They wouldn't take seats for the show, because they planned on leaving as soon as Mark's match was finished and driving through the night in shifts.

Mark emerged in a calm state after the shoot. Too relaxed for Bill's liking actually, and Bill was left wondering just how the hell Mark had done it. Mark had been nothing but constant motion for days now, save for when he was passed out. Bill tired to reason out which of the crew Mark had bought off of when he had his back turned... And it got Bill so incredibly angry at Mark.

When they were finally back in the dressing room, Bill crossed the floor to where Mark and his brothers were hanging out. He stood over Mark's seated form, for once taller then he was. "Who did you get it off of?" Bill asked him. Mark looked up at him. At first he looked confused, and then resigned himself with a deep sigh.

"First rule of an addict, Bill, thou shalt not narc on your source." Mark muttered, his eyes dropping to the floor. Bill's face pulled up into a scowl.

"So you admit it. You idiot! Nearly dying wasn't good enough for you?" Bill shouted. Mark groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"Not now, Bill, please... I'll do this thing, and go home and get cleaned up... But I can't face that crowd tonight without it, okay? What if I flip out right in the middle of the ring?" Mark asked quietly.

"You've been on anti-psychotics and barbiturates for four days, you think adding this to the mix is going to help you?! You really are stupid!"

"Yes! I'm a fucking moron! I get that, okay?" Mark shouted back. "But I happen to be an addicted moron too..."

"Don't blame the addiction. You wanted this. You wanted ALL of this." Bill accused, gesturing around him. Mark groaned.

"Just, not now. Please, Bill." He muttered.

"Yes, now. I just don't want to see you dead."

"Because I'm your meal ticket." Mark muttered again.

"Meal ticket? Now I know you really are stupid. I got along find before you came along, and if you snort yourself into oblivion, I will continue to get along fine. Don't think so much of your poor, addicted self. The world spun forward before you mattered to anybody and it will still do so long after you're nothing but ash." Bill said. Mark knew he was using the Catholic imagery of returning to ash to get to Mark. Bill's point hit him hard, like a smack to the jaw, and it stung... But that's because Bill was right and that hurt Mark most of all. Technically, he'd chosen this. Cocaine was a tough drug to become dependent on, but he'd managed to do it with flying colours. Typical, twisted over-achiever he was.

"Mr. Moodie, maybe we should just keep Mark calm for now." David suggested quietly. However, his tone suggested no room for argument. Mark was staring directly at his feet, hunched over and withdrawn. Bill took a deep breath.

"I'll be back in time to make sure he's dressed for the show." Bill said, and spun on his heel in the direction of the locker room's door. "Make sure he gets those pills that the doctor prescribed him at the hospital." He said and was gone out the door.

Mark's brothers sat there dumbly while Mark wallowed in his melancholy. He moved little over the next few hours between the shoot and the show, save for excusing himself to the can to 'dress'. Both David and Tim knew what Mark was doing in there, but didn't know what to do about it. They'd been under orders from their mother to just bring Mark home. Taking any kind of hard line with him now would cause Mark to explode violently and then run. They'd seen him do it several times a young man. Not that he didn't like to fight. No, he liked a good fight just as much as his brothers or any Texas boy. Mark just didn't want to get involved in any long, dragged out conflict.

He'd already agreed to come home and clean up. But he wasn't home yet and would do as he pleased until then. The fact that he'd agreed to come home so readily was a sure sign of his need for help. And David and Tim would do what they had to in order to get him home, even if it was put up with Mark's habit for a day or two.

Home, 'the suburban nightmare' as Mark felt it was, really wasn't all that bad in the rest of the family's opinion. But Mark had seemed allergic to the suburban life style from the start. His love of basketball had really been the only normal thing about him. Picked on because of his size, red hair, and a minor stutter, he'd acted out in his strangely brilliant ways. He'd gotten into a few fights, but mostly his resistance was creative and aggravating to his tormentors in an entirely original ways. He'd become a notorious practical joker, and many that messed him with him once were very hesitant to do it again after Mark had exacted revenge.

Mark had gotten into a few fights in his time too, but that was usually in defense of someone else who was being bullied. He had a sense of justice that was as defined as his body was, and would not abide watching someone being pushed around. Tim was closest to Mark in age, and had even come to his brother's defense more then once, even though Mark was already taller then he was before they got to high school, and probably didn't need the help. Mark had just continually chosen not to get in to a confrontation. Tim had questioned Mark several times on the subject, but true to form, Mark had never given a solid answer. He would just charm his way into a subject change. He was the conundrum of a vocal, strong willed family. And while Mark's will was just as strong as any of theirs, he wasn't nearly so forceful about how he got his way.

The show went off without any major difficulties. Mark putting on his gear, and most likely snorting more cocaine while he was out of sight, caused him to become even more quiet and distant... if that were possible. Bill returned and Mark voiced a legitimate concern about the darkness of the entrance of the entrance that was planned and his blurry vision. A last minute 'blocking' change was made, and had the Undertaker following Paul Bearer and the casket to the ring.

On some level, Mark was reminded of his first ever public match. Bill had been there then too. Mostly it was to make sure Mark could find his way back to the dressing rooms after having his ass handed to him. That first match had been a big eye opener for Mark. For a 'fake' sport, it sure could hurt.

Rodney had had to get close and whisper to Mark to "Stay the fuck down now." But when Mark got it in his head that he could lie down, he gladly let himself be rolled into the over-sized, novelty casket. As the lid banged shut, Mark philosophized about this particular scene of his life. It was a ridiculous end Mark figured, but his life was nothing short of ridiculous at present. There was nowhere to go but up from here. It was just as good as being put in a real casket for Mark, watching it from this perspective only made it that much more apparent.

Mark slumped in the back of the rental car, his hair still wet from the shower. He'd bumped again in the shower room. The last bit he'd had, and probably would have for awhile at least. He knew that was what was best for him, but his addiction was like a hungry wolf... And Mark knew he would have to fight with it at some point.

He just didn't know if he wanted to. He didn't feel that there was much reason to go on living at this point. He knew folks would tell him to go on for the sake of his children. But Mark would have rolled his eyes and snorted at that suggestion. His soon to be ex-wife was divorcing him so she could remarry. The man was everything that Mark was not. He worked steady hours at a while collar job. He was clean cut, and Mark would have laid good money on him never having been arrested on an assault charge... Or being a gambler for that matter. All in all, he was an upstanding member of society, and was the superior choice to raise his sons. Mark was certainly not any role model for them to follow.

The car started and Tim made Mark swallow the prescription pills he was on. Mark wondered if he would be in for an interesting night. But the last bump up he'd taken was small in comparison to what he was used to. The sedative caught up with him, as did his exhaustion, and he fell asleep.

He woke with a stiff neck, a stomach full of gut rot, and tooth fuzz. The car had stopped and it was daylight. Mark had no idea where he was, and he was more troubled by this then he should have been. He'd woken up plenty of times in unfamiliar territory, and he could even see his brothers in front of him in the front of the car... But he immediately started fidgeting with aggravation caused by his changing brain chemistry. "T-Tim?" Mark's voice was hoarse and low. Tim turned around and looked at him. Mark reeled back at what he saw. To Mark's addled mind, he thought Tim's face looked like it was melting off of his skull.

"What's wrong, Mark?" He asked as a part of his cheek fell onto the seat back in front of Mark.

"Uh, am I due for another round? I-I-" Mark couldn't stand to look at Tim anymore and shut his eyes. Still, it did little to remove the vision from his memory.

"Can you hold out for another twenty minutes to a place where we can stop?" Tim asked.

"N-No." Mark said. He thought he could still hear flesh plopping on the seats of the car's upholstery after having slid off of his brother's face.

"Okay. Just hang on. You okay to take this with warm soda then?"

"If it will make me stop seeing the skin falling off of your face in hunks, then I don't care if I take it with warm piss." Mark said through gritted teeth. Tim fell silent, and Mark figured it was most likely out of shock form the gruesome imagery that Mark had described he was seeing.

"Here, Mark." Tim finally said. Mark managed to swallow the pills and take a drink from a straw without really opening his eyes. He couldn't handle what he might see if he did.

He bent double after he was done, and covered his face with his hands. It didn't stop the sounds he heard though. He thought he could also hear the bugs that liked to crawl around under his skin scuttling around in the recesses of the car's seats, lying in wait for a moment of weakness from Mark so they could attack him again.

"You okay back there?" David asked.

"Fine" Mark said. His voice was sarcastic and chipper all at the same time. "Just drive faster." Mark suggested this in order to increase the ambient noise and block out the sound of the bugs. He wished he had a knife to stab them with should he start seeing them, but knew there was zero chance of his brothers seeing that as a wise object to give him.

With some sleep, he felt though that his mind had started to clear somewhat. He was starting to feel a growing urgency to be somewhere familiar and safe. He wanted to sleep some place where he wouldn't be reminded of his addiction, and he knew his parents' home would be a likely place to spend some time. He'd never done hard drugs growing up, so the social cues to want it wouldn't be there. At least he hoped they wouldn't be.

Dave stepped on the gas a little harder and Mark managed to lie out on his side, across the cramped back seat and go back to sleep.


	5. Part 5

Disclaimer: Characters not mine. I make no money from this. I write to avoid being a responsible adult.

* * *

When Mark was convinced to step out of the car in the Houston suburb where his parents lived, it was warm and bright outside. He knew he would have looked like the mess he was. He hadn't seen a hair brush or his face a razor since he'd climbed into the car in Rhode Island.

He'd gotten his feet on the driveway, but David and Tim had to help haul him to his feet. He was cramped up and weak from not having eaten much for the better part of three weeks now. "Oh my God, what's happened to you son?" He heard his mother say. She put her hand on Mark's cheek, almost as if she were trying to believe that what she was seeing was real, while David and Tim supported him, but Mark was numb at this point. The last throws of the perpetual high he'd been on still had a hold on him. Now would be the agonizing come down where Mark could possibly get really crazy. As if he weren't before all this.

David and Tim practically had to carry Mark into the house, as his legs didn't seem to want to work at the moment. Every few steps, Mark's head would jerk back or to the left or right. His eyes were wide and wary and his chest was heaving in and out. His brother's tried to casually explain to their mother that this was a sure sign of Mark having a hallucination. He'd already had several vivid ones on the way home. For the last hour or so of the drive, he'd been convinced that there was something foreboding in every shadow he saw. He mumbled about sharp teeth and dead eyes that were laughing at him.

They got Mark into the room he'd shared with Tim when they were kids. It had been remodeled since Mark and Tim had left it, and now the walls were a mature dusky blue colour his mother had always liked. The room was large, and still had two double beds in it. Mark knew he would have to curl up or sleep diagonally across the bed to fit on it, as he'd had to do in his mid to late teens. Still he didn't care. Tim and his mother helped him out of his clothes and into the bed on the left side of the room. His mother was fighting off tears when she realized just how thin he'd become.

Mark was just settling in to the bed when he saw his father at the door of the bedroom. He pretended not to see him at first, and continued to tremble and jabber. Tim put his hand on Mark's upper arm to get his attention. "Any chance of you getting violent on us? Do we have to make sure you stay down?" He asked.

"Don't know." Mark answered. His voice was clipped and quick, but lucid. "Don't want to, but while you can turn your back on me, you can't turn your back on the drug." Mark gave Tim a crazed smiled. It wasn't funny really, it was just the frightening truth of the matter.

"Will you take the pills you're supposed to take right now?"

"I have a guy as large as me standing in the empty corner of the room telling me he's the Lord of Darkness... So, yes please. Pills now. Before I have to watch my mother's face start to melt off in chunks. Watching yours was bad enough." Mark was speaking so quickly that Tim had a hard time understanding him. However, Mark had nodded as he'd said yes, and David came forward with the prescription bottles and a glass of water from the kitchen. He swallowed the drugs without incident and lay back on the bed.

David and Tim then started talking about who would take the first shift watching Mark, when Frank, their father, finally spoke. "You boys get some of the lunch Catherine made for you. I'll sit with him awhile." He said from where he was still leaning on the door frame.

Mark, as subtly as he could, rolled away from his father to face the wall. He wanted to sleep and clung to the blankets that covered him, waiting for the drugs to take effect. From the quick silence that settled over the room save for the noise Mark was making as he muttered to the dark things that haunted the edges of his vision, he knew that his mother, Tim and David would have filed out. He was expecting some kind of explosion from his father when the door closed, but all he heard was "Mark... You were always the smart one. What happened?" Frank said. The compassion in his voice surprised Mark enough to make the effort to role back over and face his father. He still trembled under the sheets and had a hard time focusing on his father's face.

"Y-you g-gonna say I told you s-so?" Mark asked through his rebelling body. It was partly the trembling and partly the last remains of the stutter he'd had in his youth. His father had seen it as some form of weakness, and had secretly tried to beat it out of Mark. Mark's natural reaction had been to be practically mute when he was growing up.

He'd been forced to plan out every word in advance in order to avoid getting a strip torn off of him in the garage on Sunday afternoons. It had led Mark to be a control freak in many areas of his life, even sex when he got to the age to be interested in it. The coke had helped him with stage fright, but it had also helped him loosen the fuck up. If he was high, he didn't care about stuttering, so he hadn't done it. For a long time, it was a relief to be able to speak and not worry about potentially embarrassing himself with a stutter. He'd mistakenly thought that this was how normal people functioned. His father spoke again and brought him back to the present moment.

"No Mark. I do not take any pleasure seeing you in agony. You've always been the smartest of my kids... I eventually figured out that you were a deep thinker, but not until after I'd done... damage to you... I see that now." Frank said. Mark hated him then. How dare he apologize now. Why couldn't he have done it three years ago, when Mark was riding a self-conscious wave of fame that he didn't quite know how to deal with? A sincere going through his past back then might have helped him keep his feet on the ground. He groaned loudly, and rolled his head into the pillow.

"Do - Do not tell me this right now, Frank. I can't deal with it. At this rate, but this afternoon, I'm gonna be seeing grandma's rotting corpse crawling up my leg with a knife in her teeth." Mark paused. He'd called his father by his first name since he'd said: "Frank, you're fucked." one Easter morning and emancipated himself from this place and its inability to accept him as he was.

"Mark, we have to talk about this some time. I know that. You know that."

"Frank... I am FUCKED out of my mind right now. I am seeing people's faces melt down to the skull with their eyes dangling from the sockets... I am seeing demons in shadows and people who aren't there. Now is the not the time for this." Mark said, surprised at how his anger made his speech clear.

"And when will be the time?" Frank asked.

"I'll let ya know." Mark grumbled. He'd never asserted himself so effectively around his father, and figured it had to be progress. The drugs then started to hit him and he passed out without saying another word to his father.

Mark spent the better part of a week asleep after that. He could be roused for medication, soft foods and the odd trip to the bathroom, but that was it. His old family physician made two unheard of house calls to treat him and check on his condition. When Mark admitted his hallucinations, the doctor had upped the dosage of the anti-psychotic he was on without hesitation. He also upped the dosage of sedative for a short time, telling Mark that his body needed time to adjust and function without the coke in it. Mark had nodded sincerely. At that moment, he could see his mother standing at the mostly closed door, watching through the crack. This time he knew it wasn't just him seeing things. His mother looked worn and upset and there were tears streaming silently down her cheeks... And Mark had made her that way... And there was no way to change that unless he changed himself. He instantly felt like the biggest piece of shit in the world. _Better health through guilt._ He thought.

By the seventh day, Mark managed to haul himself up and join the family for breakfast. It was a subdued affair and while his brothers had eggs, Mark asked for oranges and whole wheat toast. His voice was quiet, measured, and clear, and he knew his father would know he was working against his old stutter as he spoke.

Mark ate slowly and thought a lot about social cues and how incredibly prone he was to them. A week back here, most of which he'd been passed out for, and he was pretty much behaving as he had in his late teens... But he'd been a nervous wreck then too. Still, he wasn't snorting coke, and that had to be a good thing, right? Not only was he not doing it, but he had little desire to seek it out. It was a pain in the ass to get and one always had to watch their ass when they had it. It was an expensive, stressful habit... _Habit..._ He thought. If he could break his addiction down to a habit, then he could certainly break a habit. He'd broken out of having a stutter... Well, mostly by using Coke, but he _could_ break out of it.

Still, he had other stresses building up in him. He knew he was going to have to have that 'talk' with his father sooner rather then later. Mark wondered briefly if he'd had similar talks with his brothers. Most likely not was his conclusion. His brothers had stood any abuse well. Then again, what they did to warrant it was usually an offense that it made it almost justifiable... Almost. All Mark really did in the early years was have a stutter and never followed the crowd. Ever. Be it with his brothers, in Sunday school, with his peers, and right on through to college, Mark was usually off by himself, thinking about whatever had his interest at the time. The exception had been basketball, and that was mostly because Mark didn't have to talk while he played. He could be as good as or better than anybody, and he rarely had to say a word.

That afternoon David and Tim brought their wives and children over for a visit. As was his way, Mark mainly watched from the periphery. It made him think of his own sons and what he was perhaps missing. But the truth was that Mark really did feel that he was unfit to be a parent now, and that it was wiser and safer to stay away. His thoughts didn't rest long on his ex-wife. She pretty much hated his guts now, and she was like his own mother in terms of her will, so there was little chance he could change that.

"Uncle Mark, why do you look so bad?" One of his nieces asked him while he sat in the shady part of the patio in the back yard. He was wearing a rumpled black t-shirt and old jogging pants, which like his other clothes, hung off of him now because of his thinness. It had been a long time since he'd seen any of his family, and he was surprised the girl recognized him at all.

"Because I'm sick, baby." He told her gently.

"With what?" She asked. She was all attitude and spirit even at eight years old and Mark had to smile at her fearlessness.

"It was something I did to myself." He admitted.

"Oh, like a hangover?" She asked. Mark raised an eyebrow, but then figured she was indeed old enough to know what a hangover was.

"Kinda" Mark agreed, and nodded. "One, big, long, hangover."

"You gonna get better?"

"Yeah, baby, eventually." He replied.

"I hope so. 'Cause you really do look bad." She said, and Mark had to laugh.

"I know." He said and continued to smile.

"Honey what are you doing bothering your uncle Mark? Can't you see he's not feeling well?" David's wife Beth said, intervening on their chat. Mark was still smiling though.

"Its okay, Beth, really it is." Mark said. "Especially since the kid has a point." Beth smiled back at him sadly, and that's when Mark saw it. She didn't trust him around her daughter... Or anybody probably.

"Come on, baby, let's go see what grandpa's doing, okay?" Beth said, her enthusiasm trying pathetically to cover her fear. They were gone in an instant, and Mark was left alone to his thoughts again.

"Fuck" He whispered when they were out of earshot. A hand swatted his ear. Mark turned to the source.

"Watch your language." His mother said.

"Sorry momma." Mark mumbled, and looked down. She sat down beside him at the outdoor table and set a large glass of orange juice and a plate of bread and some cheese down in front of him.

"Here, eat. You always used to need five meals a day anyways..." She said. "... and a midmorning snack." Mark chuckled at that. What he could eat for lunch back during his school days had become the stuff of local legends.

"I was still growing then... It's calmed down somewhat since." Mark said shyly, and took a sip from the glass.

"You understand why she's nervous, right?" His mother asked quietly. They looked over to the other side of the yard, to where 'grandpa' was in the middle of helping his grandchildren paint birdhouses.

"Yeah, of course I do." Mark replied softly. He'd never stuttered when speaking to his mother privately, not even as a child. He wasn't even sure that his mother knew what his father had done to him back then. "Dave probably told her what I've been acting like as I come down."

"More though, she was probably told of what you were seeing. Some people can't deal with imagery that dark." Catherine said.

"Can you?" Mark asked.

"Yes, I think I can... I certainly hope I can, for your sake. You need someone who can listen to you and not be put off by what you're going through, what you're seeing. I've lived long enough to know that there is darkness in this world that makes the light of it shine brighter... You just seem to be more sensitive to it then most." She said. Mark took a long drink from his glass and considered this for a moment.

"Thanks, momma." He said humbly.

"That juicer does great work." She replied with a wink, implying Mark was thanking her for the food, but knowing otherwise. She just wanted to hear it from him, so Mark obliged.

"No... Well, thanks for feeding my sorry ass, but I meant to say thank you... for understanding. Not many folks do." Mark said. Catherine patted his free hand where it rested on the table.

"We'll get through this Mark, as a family." She said, determined as ever and Mark nodded again, hoping she was right.


	6. Part 6 End

Disclaimer: Characters not mine, but the idea is... I make no money from this, though I do accept alms for the poor, so long as it comes in a bottle.

* * *

A few more days after that, Mark had an appointment with the doctor again, and this time made the trip to his office. The aging doctor had a good bedside manner, and knew the seriousness of Mark's situation. He gently requested some blood and urine tests, to check to see how Mark's body had held up through the abuse it had experienced. He explained that the medications he was on would be taken away by degrees. He also regulated Mark to the 'caveman' diet he'd been living off of the last week or so, as it appeared to be doing him good in terms of his body's ability to function.

When he got home that afternoon, the phone rang a few times, and he'd heard his mother say the names "Vince" and "Bill" during her conversations. But he'd shuffled off to bed without asking about them, still subject to the sedatives in his system. At dinner, it was obviously 'shift change' and now Mark's two middle brothers, Michael and Paul were at the house. They seemed as wary of Mark as Beth had been. Mark sighed and knew that this would be the routine for quite some time to come. Still over the course of dinner, they got used to sharing space with him again, and they warmed up a little. They remembered Mark's mostly mute ways, but he could be convinced to speak when spoken to. He remained polite and calm, ate most of what was set in front of him, and then went back to bed. He was looking forward to a time when he didn't feel compelled to sleep hours upon hours away. But for now, he was just going to have to do what his body told him to.

"He needs something to focus on." Paul said when he thought Mark was out of earshot.

"Hey, I think Tim may have just the thing at his place." Michael offered. Mark ignored this and went to bed. The sheets weren't fresh, but they were still clean. It was a nice change to the scratchy feel of too clean hotel sheets. He'd dutifully taken the drugs that had been offered him with dinner, and laid his head down on the pillow.

He woke mid-morning to Michael standing over him. "You always were a nighthawk." He said.

"Mmph" Mark groaned and closed his eyes again.

"Come on, get up, momma's got food waiting for you, and we dug up a little brain teaser to occupy your time." He gave Mark a nudge. Mark cracked an eye, but he did not look pleased about doing so.

"What?" Mark asked.

"Get your ass up and find out." Michael said. Mark quietly grumbled his displeasure with various curses in the direction of his older brother. He hauled himself up off the mattress, and it took a moment for him to get his feet steady underneath him. He used the dresser to keep his body upright, and then pulled a clean t-shirt off of the top of it from a pile his mother had left for him. He got it over his head, and stood in front of Michael in the shirt and boxers he'd worn to bed.

"Formal enough?" He asked as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"As long as dad doesn't have the garage door open, sure."

"What's in the garage?" Mark asked, but Michael was already out the door of the bedroom. He was led to the kitchen where he ate under the watchful eye of his mother. She asked if he wanted to go out with her to do some shopping that afternoon, and Mark agreed, cabin fever having firmly set in about two days before that. He certainly didn't have anything else to do.

When he finished eating, Michael dragged him off to the garage. They had a crate opened and Mark saw various pieces of some kind of small vehicle lying around on old blankets on the floor. It was then he noticed a very familiar gas tank on the work bench, sitting on a soft cloth... It was from the bike that he bought after he'd won the title from Hogan... As were the rest of the parts that were strewn neatly over the work bench and floor of the garage. "What the fuck?" Mark asked.

"You had it shipped from Florida to Tim's place a few months back, remember?" Paul offered. "Well, this is how it arrived."

"Really?" Mark asked, his hand going out to gently tilt the gas tank up, and check that it was unscathed from its journey.

"Yeah" Paul said.

"Fuck, I hope it's all still here." Mark said, and the men noticed a sudden, subtle change in him. There was a spark of life in his dull, sunken eyes finally. "Or else I've got a shipping company to sue."

In truth, Mark had no recollection of shipping his bike anywhere, but he was willing to go along with what he'd been told. The last six months of his life were too hazy to argue over something as small as this. Perhaps some level of his subconscious knew all along he would have ended up back here.

He spent most of the next hour getting the frame set up properly so he could work on it. But the activity, the sedatives he was told to remain on, and the cool of the garage got to him and he needed to go back to bed before lunch time. In his family's estimation, he looked a little defeated by this, and upset that his body wouldn't hold up to what he wanted it to do.

After he was roused for lunch, he felt awake enough to go out with his mother and Michael to go grocery shopping. Catherine insisted that he look at least somewhat presentable, and he put on clean jeans and a t-shirt, dragged a brush through his hair and tied it back. Michael drove them, and Mark sat in the passenger seat, watching the world go by past him. The irony of not being in control was not lost on him. The city itself hadn't changed much on him. Not really, anyways. It was still hot, and smoggy, and ever sprawling.

At the store, his mother ran into no less then half a dozen people she knew, and each time Michael and Mark were made to make polite hellos as if they were twelve years old again. Michael seemed used to this social interaction, while Mark was somewhat wooden and distant. But Mark had been living in a vacuum for the last four years. He'd been ushered around and met people only rather formally and usually in passing, saved for those he worked with directly... And nothing removed someone from reality faster then hanging around other 'famous' people.

Mark knew he'd been recognized at the store by several people. Most folks just got that look in their eyes that said "It's _really_ you" without ever having to say a word. The bag boy even had a small fanboy moment, and Mark just gave the kid the smallest of smirks, and signed an autograph for him on a piece of note paper the cashier had behind the register.

"Can't take you anywhere." Michael said and then rolled his eyes.

Mark slept again when he got home, agitated with the information overload that was real life. But it was this chunk of sensory input that got Mark dreaming again. His mind kicked up a fuss against the sedatives and his dreams overtook his mind in a splash of colour. He'd gotten vivid dreams when coming down before, but never this intense. He knew it would be explained as the chemicals in his brain starting to be made again after so long without them, but that didn't help him while he was still asleep; nor when he exploded out of his bed with a bellow just before the 11 o'clock news that night. Paul and Michael found him balled up on the floor in the corner of the bedroom, trying to tear his hair out and having limited success at it. He howled wordlessly for a time. The cries were agonizing and hardly recognizable as human. His dream had had him being swallowed alive by a gigantic snake, and his body writhed and fought against what he thought was the creature's mouth closing over his head.

"Mark!" Paul shouted to try and get his attention, but that only caused Mark to throw himself violently against the wall and shout again. He clearly had no perception that they were in the room with him.

"Mark" Catherine said much more softly and started walking towards her distressed son. Michael tried to hold her back for a moment. "Let me go, Michael. I've seen him have a nightmare before." She said.

"But you don't know how he's going to react, momma." He reasoned.

"He's still asleep, and he needs to be woken up. I used to have to do this for him when he was a child. Let me go, Michael." She said with a calm bearing that Michael had learned quite well as a child not to argue with. He took his hand off of his mother's arm, though he clearly wasn't happy about it. Mark's shouting had subsided for the moment, and he sat in a heap, trembling and rasping as he breathed. She reached out her hand and touched his shoulder. "Mark, wake up." She said softly. His lightening quick reflexes caused him to grab her wrist in his hand. He looked up and squinted, as if not believing what he saw. In his dream, just as the snakes jaws were finally closing over his head, his outstretched hand touched someone who was trying to pull him out. As he looked around, he held his mother's hand to him, as if holding on for dear life.

"Momma?" He whispered.

"Yes Mark. You were having a bad dream." She said calmly.

"Oh" He said. "Where am I?" He asked, and tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes with his free hand, and in doing so rub away his confusion.

"You're home." She said.

"Home" Mark repeated, tasting the word as he spoke it. It was as if it was a foreign word and he was trying to determine what it meant. "Home" He said again. His breathing started to slow as he focused on his waking state and the word he was trying to re-familiarize himself with.

"Paul and Michael are here. They're going to help you get back into bed, all right?" She asked.

"Yeah, sure." Mark murmured.

"You remember when you were very young? You used to get terrible nightmares back then as well." Catherine said softly, and Mark nodded his head up and down.

"I remember." He whispered.

"Just a dream, Mark, nothing more." She said and Mark nodded again.

"Nothing more" He repeated. Catherine then nodded to Paul and Michael and Mark accepted their help to get him back into bed. Catherine covered Mark back up with the blankets and sat on the edge of the bed, running her hand over Mark's hair. Mark moved his opposite hand out from under the covers and took hers and then closed his eyes. They stayed that way silently until the room emptied, save for the two of them. "Home is such a strange concept to me now." Mark said, now perfectly lucid.

"How so?" His mother asked. This had been their tradition many nights as Mark had grown up, but before they would be sitting in the kitchen over some late night indulgence. Catherine knew he would have already pinned down the source of his dream, now he just had to work out the details with someone.

"I just haven't felt as if I had one for the last few years." Mark said. "And now that I'm here, and you all want me here, I'm a bit scared that I could be swallowed whole by this place. I spent a long time distancing myself from it."

"Silly ass, why would you feel like you didn't have a home?" Catherine asked.

"Living out of a suitcase for something like four years will do it to you." Mark said, and his mother nodded in understanding.

"You could have come home any time." She reassured.

"Physically, yeah, I could have walked through the door whenever... But I wouldn't feel like I was home in my mind. You know how obsessive I can get over stuff."

"No, really?" She asked. Mark rolled his tired eyes. His mother had to be the sweetest sarcastic person he'd ever known.

"Anyways, I guess I figured that home is a place where someone is needed, and I wasn't needed anywhere except for work, and work means the road... I still don't see how I could possibly be needed here."

"That's simple, Mark. Your father and I need for you not to destroy yourself... I was a complete wreck when that hospital official said 'drug overdose'. The idea that one of my sons was out there, lost like that, had me terrified. I need for you to see this through and to see you living cleanly and happy with yourself. It's the minimum that any parent who loves their child wishes for them." She said, and stroked his hair again.

"Are you going to tell me that I'm too smart to have fallen into this like Frank did?" Mark asked softly, his defenses rising. Catherine entwined her fingers with his.

"No, because that is obviously not the case." She said. "You're human, and humans get themselves into strange situations. I've been told two things since the very start of your schooling, first was that you're brilliant. And the second was that you're different. Of course, all I could think was 'Hell, I could have told you that'... But those two things do not remove the fact that you are human first and foremost... And humans are fallible and need certain things to function. A home is one of those things." She said, and Mark squeezed his mother's hand gently. It was during these conversations that he felt he made sense in this family. His mother could be just as introspective as he was, but she could be more subtle about it.

"I'm sorry I fucked up." Mark said.

"I know you are... And watch your language."

"Yes, momma." There was a period of silence between them, and Mark knew his mother wanted to ask him something, but was hesitating. Long accustomed to being silent, Mark waited her out.

"Mark, will you go back to the road?" She asked, and there was a certain amount of fear in her voice. "I mean, I can help you when you're here. But if you go back, then that direct contact is gone."

"I've got a contract to fulfill, momma. So I'll at least have to uphold that." Mark reasoned. "It's gonna be hard... There are some folks whom I'm going to have to straight up avoid being around." Catherine let out a sudden breath that Mark didn't know she'd been holding. "What?" He asked.

"I'm just... relieved to hear that you're going to do your best to stick with this." She said.

"You just said you needed me to get through this. It's the first time in a long time I've really been needed to do anything... It feels kinda good." He said. It was Catherine's turn to squeeze his hand.

Mark fell asleep easily after that, and slept soundly until the morning. The renewed concept of _home_ filled up a very empty part of him, and it soothed his addled soul.

Mark had stolen a few moments alone in the garage, and was using the time to put the bits and pieces of his bike back together. He owned a couple of others now as well, which were being stored in various places. But he still felt a certain attachment to this one. It was the physical manifestation of the culmination of a few goals... Goals that he'd been told at every turn on his path to achieving them, that he would never realize. It made Mark smile a bit. He'd become a success, and all he'd had to really do, was be exactly what he'd been told prior was his downfall, and that was himself.

He set his father's socket wrench down on the work bench and was feeling around for a rag blindly when the door between the house and the garage opened. His father stood in the doorway. "Hey Frank" Mark said, finding the rag and wiping his hands on it.

"How's it going in here?" His father asked.

"Slowly... Gotta remember how this all goes back together before I can do much of anything." Mark answered honestly. "You'd _think_ I would have had the sense to include the technical manual with the crate... But no, not me. Always living by the seat of my pants."

"In more ways than one." Frank commented. Instead of narrowing his eyes in anger as Frank expected, Mark's brow raised and he shrugged his shoulders.

"You're right." Mark agreed.

"Christ, I don't think you've admitted I was right in ten years." Frank said.

"I'm stubborn." Mark said and grinned.

"That you are... How are you feeling, son?" Frank's face was serious, but Mark could see the caring in his expression as well.

"Feels like I'm numb behind my eyeballs, ya know? Like I'm here, I'm just not with it yet." Mark said honestly. There was a silence between them. Mark had given his answer, and felt no more reason to speak.

"Can we talk about it now?" Frank asked. "Because it's been keeping me up at night. Especially now that you're back here with us." Now Mark's brow furrowed. He tossed the greasy rag back on to the work bench. As much as this angered him, Mark knew himself well enough that he would have to be provoked into this conversation... And it was better now then later, when he was of a more sober mind and more likely to overreact. He sighed deeply.

"All right..." Mark said softly. "What do you want to say to me?"

"That I'm sorry I didn't see you for the person you were becoming first of all." Frank said. Mark had to put his hand out and steady himself on the work bench. The words his father had chosen were clipped, and yet exactly perfect for Mark to hear. Mark wondered how long it had taken for Frank to think of them. His father continued.

"And while I know that your initial choice to use that drug was your own, I know that the obsession I fostered in you was likely a cause of your overuse of it. I feel really responsible for your current state. When you were young, I thought you needed discipline when you needed guidance, and I understand why you took off... At least I think I do. I was too harsh on you. You were always a good kid, just a little different is all. I can't say you're sensitive. You're not. You're one of the toughest men I've ever seen when it comes to tolerance of pain. When your brothers howled out anything I wanted them to say, you just stood it like a man, even when you were too young to know what it meant. What you are is aware, so incredibly aware of the world around you. You miss nothing, Mark... And that amazes me." Frank said, and took a deep breath.

"Why?" Mark asked. "What makes me so remarkable that you'd feel compelled to apologize?" He stumbled over a couple of words. His stutter showing at a vulnerable moment as usual, and slowed his speech.

"Because everyone I've ever known has forgotten something, or missed something, or been ignorant of something. You haven't ever... And if you did, it was on purpose."

"I've forgotten plenty, Frank." Mark said. "The technical manual for this bike for example. Hell, I don't even remember having it shipped to Tim's."

"I would assume that's because of you've been rather out of sorts lately... But when it counts Mark, you don't forget." Frank said. "And no matter how much I would wish it to be so, you'll never forget what I did to you."

"No, I won't." Mark agreed, looking around at the various pieces of his bike strewn neatly about the garage. "But I can learn from it."

"How so?" Frank asked.

"Timing... Mainly when to duck." Mark said, smirking, and trying to lighten the situation. His father gritted his teeth and looked down.

"You never ducked." Frank said. "Never any cowardice in you."

"No, but I sure learned when to. It helped when I was 'collecting debts' back in the day." Mark mused, and then took a deep breath. "I... I'm not angry anymore, dad... it took a long time, but I got through it... I accept your apology, and I forgive you... I have my own apology to make though. I'm sorry for dragging the family's name through the mud lately. I'm only now figuring out that despite what I may think or want that there are always going to be other people I have to consider when I choose to do something... No matter how far from home I am." Mark said, and the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile.

"This is home?" Frank asked.

"Yeah dad, this is home." Mark answered and looked his father in the eye. Mark's voice had only failed him on a few syllables, but he wasn't nervous about it anymore, so he just took a second when he stumbled and then continued on. Frank then came over to Mark, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you for giving me this chance, Mark." He said.

"And thank you for giving me another chance dad... And seeing my life as worth something when I felt worthless." Mark had to look away again. The moment was too intense. He'd meant every word he'd said, and he believed every word his father had said.

They didn't speak much after that, and set about cleaning the garage up for the night in companionable silence when Paul came into the garage to announce that supper was on the table.

"You two okay?" Paul asked, and raised his eyebrows at the serenity of the scene he was looking at.

"Yeah Paul, we're just fine." Frank said. Mark remained silent as usual, but he smiled and nodded in agreement.

The next day was much the same for Mark. He slept a lot, but managed to eat a little more. He even managed a short, slow walk around the neighbourhood that morning with his mother. He was still unsteady on his feet, and Michael made sure to accompany them to make sure Mark behaved himself. Mark could also still hear the odd scuttle of bugs and whispers from that dark version of himself. But Mark also found that he could tell them to go away, and they did for awhile. He had a measure of control unknown to him before, but he also had level of relaxation to go with it which was also new for him. He found he could speak to his father and not have to agonize over his next sentence. Frank would wait until Mark put it all together. He'd said he was sorry for what he'd done, and seemed infinitely pleased that Mark started addressing him as "Dad" again.

To Mark, the air was a little clearer during his walk. He certainly was breathing easier. He was alive and he was home, and to him, it was a good place to start rebuilding his life.

-Fin-

"_Square one, my slate is clear. Rest your head on me, my dear. It took a world of trouble, took a world of tears. It took a long time, to get back here." - Tom Petty_


End file.
